Clear Skies
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: America says goodbye to England before heading off to the Pacific Theater for a while. The Allies did decide it was his job to deal with Japan, after all. USxUK.


America ran his hand over the surface of the new fighter plane his boss had sent him, unable to keep back the hot spark of excitement and the tingling anticipation his simple appreciation of the clean lines and angled wings sent skittering through him, even though he knew what the plane was for and what it meant. It'd soar, this one, he thought, like an eagle, proud and high and bright, a fighter meant for a hero indeed.

The thought soured in the back of his throat a moment later. A hero, huh? But then, heroes always had to make the hard decisions. If they didn't, who would, right? That was what being a hero was all about. He'd made hard decisions before. Rebelling against England. Expanding west to claim all his land. Coming into the last war.

He sighed and banged his fist lightly against the plane, struggling to control the conflicted emotions twisting up inside him, to tamp them down and lock them away behind the part of him who was excited and ready to go right this second. That was who he needed to be, the heroic fighter pilot who was everything his people expected, loud and confident and spilling over with enthusiasm to fight those Japs.

(Kiku, his mind supplied, and he thought, no. He's gone wrong, really wrong, and you have to show him, Alfred. Who else will, if you won't? You didn't stop him earlier and look where that's gotten both of you.) And he couldn't quite bury the part of him that really just wanted to punch Japan's face in for what he did at Pearl Harbor, in the Philippines, either.

Well, that was what he was going to go and do right now. But something kept him where he was, his hand resting against the side of his new plane and his stomach twisting itself up into knots.

"America!" He could hear England's voice at the other end of the airfield, and he didn't sound happy. America smiled a little sadly at his own dull reflection in the side of the plane. 'Course he wasn't. He never was, with him, was he? "Bloody hell, where could he have gone? America, you damned Yank, if you don't show your face this instant I'll be fucked if I—"

America ducked under the nose of his plane, running one hand along the fuselage, and waved. "Hey!" he said. "Old man! I'm over here!"

England's shoulders stiffened at that, and his head whipped over to stare in America's direction. His eyes took in America's flight gear at a glance, and then he was jogging over. "I heard your leader sent you a message, and a prototype aeroplane," he said. "But that's no excuse for you to be ducking out of meetings early, you—"

"We'd already decided what I need to do, anyway," America said easily, struggling to conceal the sudden uneasy flutters in his stomach. "So it's no big deal, England."

"And what, now you're just going to take it out for a spin?" England scoffed. "Need I remind you that these are my skies, and that we're still under threat of attack from Germany's damnable Luftwaffe, and . . . ."

"Not exactly," America broke in. "Um . . . England." He shifted uncomfortably, then swallowed hard. Heroes didn't hesitate to say important things, after all. "Are you going to be okay now?" he asked, studying England's features carefully, closely enough that he'd remember everything about them, just—just in case, from the way England's hair tumbled down into his eyes from the wind and his run to the confused scrunch of his oversized eyebrows. His cheeks had filled out again, a bit, and he wasn't as pale as he had been when America got there; his bruises had mostly faded, though there was still a plaster over a scrape on one cheek. America remembered applying it, his fingers brushing roughly over England's skin, and—well, the important part was that England was doing all right at the moment, or at least he seemed like it.

England blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

America took a deep breath. "Are you going to be okay?" he repeated, and locked his hands together behind his back, not at all because they were shaking, even just a little.

England shrugged. "Fine, I should think," he said carelessly. "We've got more supplies and ammunition than ever, and now that you're here—"

America had a hard time concealing his wince. "That's just it," he said. He took a deep breath. _Buck up and say it, Alfred_, he told himself. "England, I—I've got orders, from my boss. We decided I'm supposed to fight Japan anyway, and so . . . well, I'm supposed to leave as soon as possible." He waved vaguely in the direction of the sky. "To . . . you know. Fight in the Pacific." He shrugged. "That's what the new plane's for."

England's face went blank for a moment, and America's heart maybe stuttered a little, which had nothing to do with nerves, none at all, then he crossed his arms and nodded, looking down at his boots. "I see," he said. "That makes sense. Your shore, and all that."

"And I just wanted to make sure that you'll be all right, because—" America started, the words tripping all over each other in their haste to get out of his mouth.

England shook his head, quick, jerky, dismissive. "I'm not going to go into a decline because you're not here to hold my hand, America," he said, and his voice was scathing, as bitter as years past all over again. "I'll do all right. I was taking care of myself long before you could crawl."

America blushed, and rocked back, uncomfortable. "It's not that," he said. "It's just that, well, you're an awful big target right now, and—"

England rolled his eyes. "Not as big as you are," he said.

America bit his lip. This wasn't turning out right at all. His words were coming out all wrong, and England wouldn't stop twisting them up. "We're still gonna fight together," he said. "I promised. Stop Germany first, right?"

"Good lord, America," England said. He still wouldn't look at him, but the impatience in his voice was obvious. "Don't take on. We're allies. It isn't as if you won't be coming to meetings. We still have to plan for Africa, at any rate."

He didn't get it at all. America swallowed hard. He'd never thought he'd see England looking as weak and battered and . . . and _small_ as he'd been when America'd first joined the war. England hadn't said a word about it, of course; he was so tough it sort of blew America's mind a little. But it'd scared him. Really scared him. He'd never thought before that maybe England could actually . . . go away. That he wouldn't be there anymore, and all there would have been between them would be years and years of tense silences and bitterness and anger and not speaking to each other, and the fumbling reconciliation they'd tried for but never quite managed all the way. "Um," he said, tentative and unsure and he _hated_ this and he couldn't figure out what to say at all, and he was maybe sort of starting to panic a little (except that he was too awesome to panic). He reached out and he laid both hands on England's shoulders and clasped his fingers around them and held on. "Um . . . take . . . take care of yourself." He patted England's shoulder with one hand, rough and fumbling and awkward. Hell, what was wrong with him? This wasn't how a hero said goodbye!

"Oh, shut it, America," England said gruffly. "I'll be fine. What the blinking fuck are you on about? I've held out this long, haven't I, and you weren't too fussed about it two years ago."

America swallowed hard, and he wanted to yell at England, and shake him, and demand that didn't he know how scared America had been, and didn't he understand how—how—how everything had changed? But he couldn't do that, because he wasn't going to say goodbye to England with another fight. Not this time, when they were at war, everyone was at war, and everything was so uncertain, and he had no idea when he'd see England again, or what would happen, though of course nothing bad would happen, he was too awesome for that.

He looked down at England, at his straw-colored thatch of hair and his disapproving scowl and his green eyes the color of the English hills, feeling his shoulders solid under his hands, and before he knew what he was doing, he yanked him forward, into his chest, and wrapped his arms tight around him, hands closing over his hair, against the back of his neck. He could feel his cheeks heat, feel his own muscles tensing up and locking down with nerves, but he didn't let go, hanging on stubbornly, England's body against him warm and alive and stiff with surprise, and he wasn't going to let go until he was sure he wouldn't forget how England's hair smelled, or how his head felt knocking into his shoulder, or how his hair felt mussed between his gloved fingers, or his quick hard breaths or the heat of his face against America's bicep and shoulder.

He honestly thought that England would just stand there, stiff and uncomfortable, and tolerate the embrace for a few seconds before trying to pull away, and that America would have to pull him back and feel kind of like an asshole until he felt like he could manage to let go. But instead, England's hand came up and clenched hard in the leather of America's bomber jacket, and he pulled closer, even as he made a confused sort of sputtering sound and swore into America's arm. America moved his hand up and down through England's hair a few times, brushing it up and smoothing it down, his hand clumsy. He didn't know what to say, so he let his mouth settle into an uneven, grim sort of line and pressed his chin down against England's head, hoping that somehow the planes and knots of his body would convey what he couldn't figure out how to say out loud.

Be safe. Don't leave me. Don't hate me for leaving you. Maybe I don't hate you. Maybe I do care after all. Please, please, please be here when I come back. Please be here always, forever, because I wouldn't know what I'd do if you weren't there anymore.

Because you're England.

England turned his face to press into America's shoulder and just . . . _breathed_, for a second, his hand clenching tighter in the jacket at America's side. "You promise me," he said, a little unevenly, after a moment. "Don't get yourself shot down over some godforsaken tropical shithole of an island because you're showing off, you ridiculous egomaniacal excuse for a nation, and you'd best be on time for the meeting in a month's time, because every second you're late . . . I'll . . . I'll find some way to make you regret."

America closed his eyes, tightened, and breathed in the scent of tea and English air. "Yeah," he said, and if his voice wasn't entirely steady, who was around to hear it, except England, and his wasn't either. "I promise." Then he laughed, letting his eyes open again. "I'm a better pilot than you, anyway," he said. "There's no need to worry about me; you'd better worry about yourself, seeing as how you're all ancient and decrepit and stuff."

"Ha," England said. "Very funny, you colonial upstart. At least I don't take the absurd risks you do, and I'll worry about whomever I bloody well please." He shrugged off America's hold, straightened his own uniform tunic with a few quick jerks, and tossed America a loose salute. "Clear skies to you," he said.

America watched him go, his back stiff and straight, his posture as rigid and perfect as always, for several moments before he managed to choke out, "And—and you," knowing perfectly well that England's skies wouldn't be clear. But the faster he dealt with the threat in the Pacific, the faster he could come back here and show Germany that that went both ways, after all, and take some of that pressure off England.

So he'd better get going.

England looked back at him, and shook his head, and looked down again and kept going, but America thought he'd seen him smile, before he hid it with that duck of his head.

America grinned, too, wide and open and not caring who saw him, and he watched him go, straight-backed and proud.

He was in his plane doing the pre-flight checks when it occurred to him that England had pretty much said he'd worry about America.

Huh. So the feeling was mutual, after all. America tilted his head up and stared into the sky.

For once, it was an endless blue over his head.

Clear skies, he thought. He wrapped his hand over the stick and pulled.

Finis.

**Historical Notes: **  
America committed to winning the war in Europe first after finally joining the war in 1941 after the attack on Pearl Harbor.  
During this time England would still have been under attack by the Luftwaffe (the German Air Force), though the majority of German attention had shifted to Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of Russia.  
In my head, during WWII Arthur and Alfred both flew as pilots, but Arthur was doing it because he was needed, and Alfred because he loves flying. Or something. *shrugs* And both of them probably filled whatever military role they felt like, obviously.  
This probably takes place after my other fic? It's possible that they all kind of exist in the same universe, unless stated otherwise.


End file.
